This Mourning
by When Rabbits Attack
Summary: If this kept up, the only way he'd stop losing would be when he had nothing left. I neither own Flashpoint, nor the characters involved. That would be CTV and Pink Sky. Spoilers to 2.22.


"I'm not gonna be able to make it, today, Boss." The voice on the phone was almost unrecognisable; only by the phrasing and pacing did Greg have any clue it was Spike. He did not sound well, at all.

"Okay, well, you take care of yourself." Greg didn't even bother to question. After all, it wasn't like anybody on the team abused sick days. The real trouble was getting anybody to use them before they expired. "Get some rest."

It took a moment for Spike to answer that. "Yeah."

Something nagged at Greg about the reply, but he couldn't quite figure out what. "Give me a call, later, when you're feeling better. In the meantime, we'll cover for you."

"Okay." Monosyllabic responses weren't Spike's normal modus-operandi. He _had_ to be sick.

"Alright. Gotta go, buddy. Hang in there."

Spike didn't even bother to say 'goodbye' before closing the connection. Greg felt sorry for the guy. The last six months were ones Greg wouldn't have wished on anybody, let alone someone so undeserving of it all as Spike. From losing a friend – his _best_ friend – in one of the worst ways possible to getting held at gunpoint, it had been a rough half year, to put it extremely mildly. It was no wonder the stress had finally run him down.

"Poor kid." He hadn't lied, however; he had to go. Ed was lucky, today. He got to take over the team and run them through drills and practice. He was Team _Leader_, as opposed to Team _Sergeant_, meaning he got to skip meetings full of stimulating discussion over budget allocations. Him, Greg did not feel sorry for, in the least.

He hated meetings.

* * *

He hated meetings because more often than not he left with a headache and the desire to strangle somebody. Therefore, he was not in the most charitable of moods as he passed the desk, just in time for the call to come in. He was surprised to find the phone handed wordlessly in his direction by Winnie, whose face said it all. It wasn't the first time this caller had been on the line, today. Clearly, the situation had escalated out of a willingness to leave a simple message and well into demands to speak to somebody in charge _or else_.

"This is Sergeant Gregory Parker. To whom am I speaking, please?" Instinct took over, letting none of his frustration creep into his voice. People were often soothed and comforted by formality and politeness, not to mention less belligerent in the face of greater authority.

Not this person. "Sergeant Parker who works with Michelangelo Scarlatti? Because that is the only person I am going to speak to, and I'm not going to leave another message, and I won't be put on hold, going round and round to people who know nothing and aren't willing to do anything."

"Yes, I am." Greg frowned. Spike wasn't generally in the habit of pissing off women this much, at least not in any official capacity.

"I would like to speak to him. _You_ should at least know where he is, if you're his sergeant, even if that other person didn't." There was something vaguely familiar about the voice, but Greg was damned if he could tell what it was.

"Have you tried calling..." _Be reasonable_, he told himself. If he couldn't strangle his superiors, he wasn't allowed to strangle a nameless, presumed civilian, either.

"He's not _answering_ his phone," she snapped. "Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you think I'd be wasting my time phoning you if I could get that idiot to pick up his?"

Recognition began to dawn. He had heard this voice before, only at the time she hadn't been speaking English. Rather, she'd been screaming in Italian while Spike pointed the phone away from his ear and directly at a brick wall. _"I love my nephew,"_ he'd said, when she'd finally hung up, _"If only he wasn't related to my sister."_

"I thought S... Michelangelo was home, sick." Spike was only Spike with friends, not family. Immediate family didn't even go so far as to call him Michael.

"Do you think I'd be calling you, if he was? Do you think there'd be a problem if we knew where he was? He took the dog out to the vet this morning, and he hasn't been back, since. So now he's got our mother worried about him. So when you see him, you tell him to either pick up the phone or get his ass back here and apologise."

Greg said nothing. Mrs. Scarlatti wasn't the only one worried, now. _That_ was what had been wrong. Spike hadn't sounded sick, he'd sounded like he was crying. Not just a few, minor tears, either, but a deluge. Now Greg felt ill. He should have caught it, should have asked what was wrong.

"Are you hearing me?"

"The dog," Greg repeated.

"Yes." She stopped, suddenly, perhaps realising that something really was wrong. "He was going to work this morning, our mother said, when he yelled at her he was going to take it to the vet."

"Do you know which vet?" Greg gestured for a pen and some paper.

"No, I don't. You don't think..."

"I don't know." There was no sense lying to her. Lies only got you in deeper trouble than you were in the first place. "Thank you..." He realised he didn't know her last name and had only a guess about her first.

She didn't bother to enlighten him. "I need to go talk to my mother. But if both his arms and legs aren't broken, he can learn to pick up his phone." She hung up even more unceremoniously than her brother had. Greg winced. Sometimes he couldn't help but be glad he was born an only child.

Winnie smiled sympathetically as he handed the receiver back. "Sorry. I told her I didn't think Spike was here, and that you were in meetings, but she wouldn't give up."

"It's okay." Greg leaned on the desk, angling himself so he could partly see the computer screen. "I need a list of veterinary clinics in Woodbridge, starting with the ones closest to Spike's home. Can you get me that?"

"In less time than it takes you to ask for it," she told him. "You going for a drive?"

"Looks that way," he said, as the printer whirred. He plucked the paper from her outstretched fingers, studying it as he headed for the door. He'd call Ed on the way, just to touch base and let him know not to expect him. No sense spreading fear and uncertainty until they knew what they were dealing with. He tried Spike's phone just in case, but as suspected it went straight to voicemail. It _might_ have just meant that Spike was tired of dodging his sister, but somehow, Greg didn't think so. He was definitely going to have to go for a drive.

He found success at the third clinic he visited. They were reluctant to tell him anything at first, only relenting when he told them he was fairly certain that medical confidentiality only applied to human patients. They seemed to assume that the request was part of something official – there was one advantage to a uniform over plainclothes – cautiously divulging that one "Noble Scarlatti" had indeed been brought in that day. It took a little more prodding before they admitted what he feared.

"The doctor performed a euthanasia procedure." The receptionist showed little emotion as she read from the screen. That, at least, Greg understood. It hadn't been her friend, her steadfast companion, and she couldn't afford to think that way, either. To take every case personally only led to madness.

"Thank you." He left, feeling a little sick again. Poor Spike, the universe just seemed to have to go after him at every turn. If this kept up, the only way he'd stop losing would be when he had nothing left. _And then what?_ Greg was a little afraid of the answer to that.

At least, now, he had a starting point. Knowing Spike, he wouldn't have gone too far. He'd have wanted a place to hide out; Spike didn't normally believe in dragging other people into his miseries. The first thing he always did when hurt, was withdraw. Lew had been good for Spike that way, refusing to let him spend too much time living alone inside his head. Ed tried, but he couldn't quite pick up the slack. Demanding Spike attend group gatherings was one thing, but there was no one left to drag him places on the nights in between. No one to see that he actually met and spoke to strangers, in the hopes that maybe they wouldn't stay strangers. With the team, Spike wouldn't shut up. Compensation, Greg guessed, for his near muteness in more intimidating situations.

Sighing, Greg got into his vehicle. He drove slowly, keeping an eye out for Spike's truck. Again, official appearances did him a favour, few people willing to complain about being held up by a police vehicle. Were he driving anything else, he had no doubt he'd inspire more than a few cases of road-rage, but there was something about the extra lights that made people think twice.

It wasn't long before he got lucky. Even in his hometown, Spike probably didn't have a regular hangout, settling instead for something with the attributes of 'close-by' and 'open'. Greg found a place to park. And here he'd thought he'd given up going to bars in mid-day.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. He, too, had preferred his drinking establishments to be dark, because the hangover he'd been drinking to lose didn't hurt so much. There were about three patrons in total, two of whom glanced up and then quickly looked away, not wanting the attention of a cop. The third didn't even bother to look. Instead, he played with his glass, turning it in his fingers and studying the play of the liquid against the sides of the glass. For all he cared, the rest of the world might as well not exist. He'd ensconced himself in a corner, well away from the traffic of people coming and going. He didn't even appear to notice as Greg sat down opposite him.

Greg waited. Sometimes the best way to get someone to talk was to leave them space to fill. He knew Spike would. Tears already formed in the man's eyes as he tried to frame his hurt in a way that made sense to someone not in it. He didn't necessarily _want_ to, but he would because he knew Greg wanted it, and like a loyal pet – inwardly, Greg cringed a little at the comparison, under the circumstances – he always wanted to please the boss.

Suddenly, Spike picked up the glass and drained it, before standing up and walking to the bar, exchanging the empty and some cash for a fresh one before returning. Greg said nothing, even as his heart stopped, briefly. Spike wasn't a drinker. He'd have a beer, at most two, or a glass of wine if the occasion demanded it, but he rarely touched the hard stuff.

"Sixteen years." If anything, he spoke more clearly than he had this morning. That wasn't saying much, however. "My second year of college... my parents finally said I could have my own dog, after my brother moved out and took his." He sniffed, wiping away tears that started to fall again. "And at the shelter there were all these dogs barking, except this one, half-grown puppy... he was just curled up asleep in his cage." A slight smile pulled at his lips, the happier memory ghosting through the pain of now. "It was like he didn't care what anybody else thought."

_Alone in his own world_. Greg didn't say it aloud, but it sounded like they'd been a match made in heaven. _A boy and his dog._

"When they took him out of his cage, though... he ran right to me. My brother laughed when he found out what I got. He said Dalmatians were for people who put out fires, not people who liked starting them."

"Nice brother," Greg commented. Someone listening to that would assume that Spike was an arsonist, at least when he was younger. Greg knew better. Spike had none of the mania of a firebug. Even then, his interests would have been solely in the realm of the scientific and practical.

Spike shrugged and said nothing. Greg cursed himself. This wasn't a conversation, it was a monologue and he'd stupidly interrupted. Not only that, but he'd made a cardinal error of family interaction: _whatever I say about my brother, _I _can say, because he's _my_ brother. Don't assume you, the outsider, get the same privilege._

Spike studied his drink a while. "His name was Nobel. The..."

"...the inventor of dynamite." Greg finished with him, the monologue spell now broken anyway. That made more sense than the vet's version. 'Noble' was – now that he considered it – a little too unimaginative a name for Spike.

"I thought 'Nitro' for a bit, but it's got too many uses. You only use dynamite for one thing."

_Blowing shit up._ In that light, 'Nobel' would also be a subtle joke, lost on those who didn't know Spike. It also, Greg realised, was a hell of a lot safer thing to yell in a park full of civilians.

"'Course, it turns out it didn't matter. My brother also said I ended up with the _stupidest_ dog in the world, because he wouldn't come when I tried calling him." Spike made a face. "Turns out, he was deaf... that's why the people who had him gave up on him. A vet told me that all too often people just put them down. Just because they can't hear anything."

Greg shook his head. He'd never had any kind of a pet when he was a kid. The house was too much of a combat zone. It sometimes caught him off guard how attached people could become, or how callous they could be.

"Did you know that only between three and eight percent of Dalmatians are bilaterally deaf? But all it means is you've got to train them different and look after them a little more. And he was a lousy guard-dog... so what? He never bailed when I wanted to go for a run; I probably got out more because of him than I would have. How do you think I got in shape for the job?"

"I didn't think it was weightlifting." He risked the comment, using the question as an invitation. It was an open secret that Spike hated workouts. Drills he threw himself into, appreciating their purpose. He could barely bench-press the minimum, but boy could he run. He would have needed something like a Dalmatian to keep up with him. In fact, Greg would forever treasure the shocked look on Ed's face when he found out the team slacker was headed to the World Police and Fire Games to compete in triathlon. Spike had lied to Sam that day on the pier; if anyone could swim in all his gear it'd be Spike. In some ways it _had_ been a rookie-thing, to steal Sam's phrase, but not in the way Sam thought. Just because Spike could swim didn't mean he had to be the go-to guy to do it. He had enough specialist jobs as it was. They hadn't been mocking Sam, but it had been a subtle lesson that everybody had to do everything. Even if they weren't great at it.

"Sixteen years, and nothing ever happened." Now Spike didn't even bother to wipe away the tears. "I always made sure he was on a leash when we went out, or that he was in the backyard and I always checked the fence and the gate – just because he couldn't hear if you yelled at him or there was a car horn... but today... I don't know how he got out but he was following me and he was about half-way across the street, when..." He gripped his glass tightly, as though it were a life-preserver. "The car didn't even slow down. I didn't get a chance to see who it was..."

"I'm sorry." Greg couldn't think of anything else to say. Most people never experienced the violent loss of even one best friend, let alone two. On the surface, it almost sounded like a bad country-western song: the string of tragedies topped off with 'my dog died'. It was easy to see, however, this was no joke.

"The vet... they said there was too much to fix, and with him so old, that his odds wouldn't be good, anyway. So..."

Greg gently pulled the glass from Spike's grasp. What he needed wasn't in there, and they both knew it. Michelangelo Scarlatti was a hell of a lot smarter than Gregory Parker.

"I can't go home. I just can't." Only now did Spike look up and look at him directly. "He always watched the door so he could see me come in... only now he's not going to be there."

"Okay." It had taken a few days for Spike to walk into the locker-room after Lew's death. Greg imagined that home right now felt the same way.

"And I can't help thinking that maybe... maybe I should've said for them to do more. Maybe I..."

Greg shook his head. "No, Spike... you can't think that, buddy. You cared about him. There was nothing more you could do." Greg wasn't sure if he was talking about Nobel or Lew right now, or if it really mattered. They were two beings in Spike's life who'd offered him unconditional acceptance, something he never really got a lot of. Greg had little doubt that if Nobel could speak, he'd have given the same condolences Lew had. _It's gonna be okay_. Greg couldn't help but wonder if Spike would ever believe that sentiment again.

"It's just... I just... I can't _do_ this. It's not fair. Why..."

"I don't know," Greg said, honestly. "You're right, it's not fair." He stood up, Spike watching him warily. He moved to beside Spike's chair and took Spike's arm. "Come on." Looping Spike's arm over his shoulders, he pulled the man from his chair. "Let's go."

"I can't drive." Typical Spike, that was the first thing he considered. Most drunk people severely underestimated their impairment – Greg knew, he used to do it all the time. Not Spike, he'd probably run the calculations in his head, considering precisely how much alcohol he'd consumed in relation to his body-weight. Not that Greg had any intention of letting the man behind the wheel, drunk or sober.

"We'll worry about your car, later." He guided Spike towards the door.

"I can't go home," Spike reiterated. "I know, it's stupid, but I can't..."

"It's not stupid," Greg soothed. He half-walked, half-carried Spike out to his car, installing him in the passenger seat. "It's not stupid at all." He reached across Spike to buckle him in, before continuing around to the driver's side. Spike slumped lifelessly in the seat. He didn't even comment when it became obvious they were heading south, well away from where he didn't want to be. He just closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. He looked pathetic, in the helpless, misfortunate sense of the word.

"Hang in there, buddy." Greg said it softly, not wanting to disturb Spike too much. In some ways, it was good that the guy wasn't the stoic type – at least he wasn't like Ed, pretending he was fine while falling apart.

Spike squeezed his eyes tight as a few more tears escaped, but said nothing. Only when the car finally stopped and Greg turned off the engine did he stare in red-eyed confusion at a parking garage he didn't recognise.

Greg helped him out, knowing the alcohol would have worked more of its dark magic, making it difficult for the man to stand up, let alone walk. Spike had no long-built-up tolerance to aid him in appearing sober long past the point where better men would have fallen down. As he sagged, Greg found himself grateful that the man only climbed on the scales for the heaviest man weigh-ins for the sake of formality. The only way this featherweight would top the pack would be if they filled the team with ten-year-olds. Still, he was heavy enough.

Up in the apartment, Spike still looked confused, somewhat to Greg's amusement. Where did he _think_ they were going? SRU was out of the question with Spike in this condition, and since he wouldn't go to his home, there was only one logical place left. "You can use the couch," Greg told him. "Tonight, only. I'll go make you some coffee."

Spike nodded. Greg wondered if he knew the time-limit was a lie. At the same time, Greg had to put _some_ kind of deadline on it. Without it, Spike might never leave. After all, he still hadn't left his parents' basement, now, had he?

Greg sighed as he started to the kitchen to put together the coffee. Ed wasn't the only one who couldn't fully fill a dead man's role. He hadn't kidded when he said a team make-up was alchemy, the sum so, so much greater than the parts. There were cops who could shoot better than Lew could, who could run faster, climb higher and rappel more quickly, but few who served so well in a mentor role without being asked, or even acknowledged for it. Jules and Sam, as well, had been beneficiaries of Lew's calm patience.

But no one more than Spike. Greg had about been ready to write off the supposed wunderkind who wasn't quite as advertised. He hated giving up on people, but no one seemed to want the awkward, temperamental, pedantic snob they seemed saddled with. SRU was where the cool cops hung out. Spike was the antithesis of that.

Lew had seen through that, though, seen past the brash son-of-a-bitch who didn't seem to care if he made friends or not, to the scared, overgrown kid who didn't know _how_, because no one had ever wanted to give him the chance. You couldn't beg, borrow, steal or even buy loyalty and dedication like they now got from Spike, you could only win it and Lew had done that for them.

Now who was there to listen patiently to Spike's strange and oftentimes wondrous theories or coax him past his oddly fascinating phobias? Who would hear the words 'I'm not going to make it in, today' and know without asking whether it was due to a broken bone or a broken heart? Were it not for the misplaced rage of his sister, Spike would still be trying to cope with his guilt alone and in all the wrong ways.

Greg started. He hadn't returned the sister's phone call; Spike's family still counted him among the missing. He debated doing so. Whether Spike realised it or not, not wanting to confront her probably played a part in his fear of returning home. At the same time, it wasn't fair to leave his parents worrying. They would be worried, after all, this was their boy who'd never quite grown up. Not all of that was due to Spike's reluctance, either. From what Greg had gleaned from conversations both participatory and overheard, both Scarlatti parents were afraid to lose their fragile baby boy. They didn't see the SRU employed explosives expert; they saw the child who used to come home from school in tears after a day of mistreatment and frustration. Not that Spike could claim innocence in the matter – he seemed quite happy with the general state of affairs.

The smell of strong coffee brought him to a decision. A couple of hours wouldn't hurt anything on that end and by then Spike might be calmed down enough to deal with it himself. Until then, it was best to stick with the fundamentals and deal with the situation in front of him. Calm down the agitated subject. Connect. Remind him he's not alone. Basic, simple things. Like, say, providing him with his drug of choice. That thought made him smile ever so slightly at the ghost of a memory. Spike's first practice session in negotiation, and the same demand that had foiled Sam – the request for cocaine – had been delivered on cue. Unlike Sam, Spike merely took the request at face value, veering off script in entirely another direction. "I can't get that for you right now, but in the meantime how about some coffee?" It had taken a full five minutes for Lew to stop laughing. Even Ed had paused, staring at the rookie like one of them had lost his mind. Greg learned three important things that day. One was that Spike didn't lack for imagination and another was that the man had trouble thinking things through. It wasn't that he couldn't see the ways a situation could play out, rather that his stunted social skills left him with no way of deciding which outcome was most likely.

It was in the third where the trouble lay, however. Greg poured them each a coffee, liberally adding sugar to Spike's. Spike had been mortified at the team's reaction, turning bright red and barely managing to stammer out an unneeded apology before fleeing. Jules had been the one to find him, more than fifteen minutes later, holed up in a corner and desperately searching the manual to find out where he'd gone wrong. Of all the things he feared, the one that truly terrified him was failure. He seemed to think that people would have no more use for him if he got things wrong. It had taken a long time to ease him out of that way of thinking, nor had it been a complete success.

_Like now_. Greg walked back into the living room and had to shake his head. Spike hadn't moved from where Greg had left him. He hadn't specifically been invited to sit down, so he didn't. It was a question of manners. He was a guest in his boss' home, something that had never happened before. As such, he didn't dare move for fear of even putting a foot wrong.

"Spike. Sit." Greg gestured towards the couch.

Spike stared at the couch as if seeing it for the first time. He seemed to take a moment to make up his mind before doing as told. He didn't relax, however. His parents – most likely his mother – had trained him well. Even Sam, born and raised military, would have been less formal. Greg understood. His own mother had placed a high priority on appearances and social rules. _Speak only if you are spoken to. Say 'please' and 'thank you'. Don't impose. Don't presume._ The first must have been torture for Spike to abide by; no doubt he'd been reprimanded often for it. It probably played a part in his developing coping skills that, even now, meant he had trouble with the other rule known as 'pay attention'. Then again, he could pick up more by even half-listening than others could while hanging off every word.

And that, Greg knew, played into the overwhelming fear of getting things wrong. Spike didn't have _experience_ with failure. Most honour students worked their asses off or needed parental prodding. Spike, from what Greg had gathered, hadn't really had to try. Even the so-called 'hard' courses – he was either so interested that he was miles ahead of the curriculum on his own, or he had enough ability to puzzle out the answers that it didn't matter. He had no understanding of the scales of mistakes or that even with big ones it didn't necessarily mean the end of the world.

Spike accepted the offered cup of coffee, wrapping both hands around it as though he were afraid he might drop it. He blew across the top of it before sipping at it carefully, nodding approval over the taste. "Thank you." He paused, "I'm sorry. I..."

"Spike," Greg drew the name out in warning. "What have we told you about 'I'm sorry'?"

Spike dropped his head. "Don't say it unless I really need it."

"And you don't," Greg told him, gently, taking a seat in a nearby chair, close enough to connect but far enough away to give the guy his space. Inwardly, he smiled, a little sadly. Anyone else and it might have been 'don't say it unless you _mean_ it', but Spike needed a different verb. He meant it every time, even when no apology was called for. For a guy who could do so much, he had so little self-esteem.

"Who gets this messed up over a dog?"

Greg knew better than to believe that statement. That was just the guilt and doubt talking: guilt over taking up someone else's time and doubt over his ability to measure up to inapplicable standards. "Somebody who cares. Somebody who just lost a good friend." Knowing Spike, Nobel would have been far more than a pet. Spike had a lot of heart and so few people to give it to. He also wasn't the type to get picky about the size and shape of his friends.

"I'm just saying... you wouldn't have to do this for Ed, or Sam... or Wordy..."

"They're not you, Spike." Ed would have been pretending nothing had happened, even as he took his pain and frustration out on everyone and everything around him. Wordy would have family to hang onto and grieve with. As for Sam, Greg wasn't so sure he _wouldn't_ have to do this. Sam and Spike weren't so different as people supposed. Sam, too, had his worries about belonging and his fear of getting it wrong. For Spike, failure had been inconceivable. For Sam, it had been unallowable. Both overreacted every time it happened and neither one knew what do to with himself afterwards.

"I know." The slight bitterness in tone said he saw that as a shortcoming.

"It just means we have to train you a little different, look after you a little more." Greg stole his words deliberately. "So, you're not the best shot and have trouble negotiating... so what? Nobody works the gear in that van as well as you or knows half the stuff you know about anything. How do you think we're so successful at what we do?"

Spike took another sip of his coffee, but said nothing.

"You're not the first tech we've had, you know that, right? I've worked with more than a few."

Spike nodded.

"And they've all been one-trick ponies. They come in, do their thing and go home. Not one of them ever signed themselves up for library courses to they could learn how to search databases better or study up on pharmacology or medicine... hell, I've never met a single one who could talk a doctor into breaking patient confidentiality, _I_ have trouble doing that sometimes." The only reason Spike had trouble negotiating was that he sometimes identified and sympathised a little too much with subjects. On the other hand, he had no real concept of how good he truly was at calming down a frightened family member or friend. Not even Jules could project the same amount of concern and consideration.

A sudden thought occurred. What little Greg understood about dog training was that the animals responded more to body-language and tone of voice, less understanding the words of approval or disapproval than the sounds. With Nobel, Spike would have had one less tool to work with and would have had to learn to translate his entire message into the visual realm. Unlike Ed, who hid behind masks, Spike's expressions were a direct match to his feelings. Dalmatians were a hyper breed; realistically, calming an agitated human couldn't be much different from calming an agitated animal. Both ran on sheer instinct, after all. "Nobel probably helped you more than you think, for this job."

Spike furrowed his brow, not understanding.

"_That_," Greg said. "You read people, better than you know. And you let them read you. And that means more in doing what we do, than a thousand perfect scores on the range or a million successful takedowns. You're probably the least intimidating cop I've ever met," he held up his hand to forestall Spike's concern, "which is why people will open up to you, when they won't to Ed or Sam, or even Wordy, or to me for that matter. And I bet he helped you learn how to do that."

Spike shrugged, but Greg could see he was at least considering the concept.

"So don't feel bad, for having feelings. Don't feel like you've done something wrong because you got hurt. It's because you care, and you can't help people if you don't care. And that's why we go to work."

Spike nodded, letting the tears fall. "Does..."

"All they know is you're on a sick day." Only Ed knew what kind of sick and he knew enough to keep quiet about it.

Spike took a long, deep, shuddering breath. "And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow..." Greg paused. "Tomorrow you'll have a whole other reason for feeling bad. Unfortunately, I can't sit here and judge." Beyond that, they'd just have to see.

Spike nodded slowly. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." There was nothing more to say. Greg sipped his coffee, thinking. He was lucky, even if he didn't always realise it. Not everybody who lost a family through all fault of their own got a second chance with a new one. But if anything took the sting out of ruining his chances with Dean, it was these kids, the ones bonded not by blood, but sweat and tears. It wasn't a complete fix by any means, but they made things a little more bearable, giving him reason to keep it together.

Later, he'd make the phone calls, breaking both good and sad news so that Spike didn't have to. For now, he'd just keep him company in his grief, so he could heal. It would do them both good.


End file.
